


The Agent

by Kateis_Cakeis



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: EMP Theory, M/M, Romance, Violence, but I don't think it's graphic idk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-12 01:27:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11726637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kateis_Cakeis/pseuds/Kateis_Cakeis
Summary: EMP theory can take us all the way back to the Pilot... So, in a world where Sherlock had just taken the pill and slipped into a coma, what would John do? Well, all he could do really. Work for Mycroft. And hope that one day, the mysterious stranger could wake up and no longer be such a stranger.





	The Agent

An old unused warehouse. Evening ensued outside and darkness consumed the majority of the area. Apart from the crack in the ceiling above, letting the moonlight shine down on one spot. Just enough so that two people could see each other as they stepped out from the darkness. Oh, how _that_ day seems incredibly numbing and boring now. And how it seems so distant, as if it was from a different life. A different timeline.

“Mycroft,” John uttered, his voice stern.

Mycroft raised a single eyebrow. “Watson.”

John rolled his eyes, he crossed his arms over his Kevlar jacket. It was as if it was the shadows themselves. “Just give me the info.”

“55 Spencer Park.”

John nodded ever so slightly. “When?”

“Whenever you like.” Mycroft’s lips twitched, almost in a smile.

John fiddled with his belt. “How will it help?”

Mycroft took a quick look at his pocket watch. “What?”

John pursed his lips together. “This. This one?”

“Ah.” Mycroft leant on his umbrella. “Just an agent, a bit like you. They make too much noise and they’re far too good.”

John smirked. “And _I’m_ better? Good enough to take them out?”

“Yes. I’m sure I can trust you to take care of it?”

“Of course.”

John went to turn away while Mycroft twisted his umbrella, the force made marks on the ground.

“Oh, and John?”

“Yes?” John swivelled around, his movements were incredibly stiff and military like.

“Go see my brother, will you?” Mycroft frowned, lightly. “It’s been some time.”

“Oh… come on, Mycroft. I barely know him.”

“You’re doing this, _for_ him. Or have you forgotten that?”

John’s demeanour shattered, his eyes stared into the distance. “I’m doing this because it’s right. Maybe it’s for him, I don’t know. I only knew him for a day before he shallowed that damn pill.”

“Just visit him. That’s an order.”

John swiftly looked to Mycroft, his eyes scorned him. “You do **not** order me.”

“…Yes.”

John shook his head. “Fine.”

The two shared a sure and brief nod. John was quick to return to the shadows of the warehouse while Mycroft calmly walked away, spinning his umbrella around.

A house, on a street, along a road. John’s destination, where his info led him. The light from a lonely lamppost shone down on him, the house was cast in darkness. Lucky for him, someone had been careless. Leaving your window open is a big fault in this industry.

Wasn’t long before John was snooping around the house. Kitchen? Empty. Living room? Not a soul. Dining room? No such luck. And so up the stairs John snuck. His fingers hovered by his gun, secured in a holster. His fancy belt also hosted a knife and a bit of ammo but that’s all he had to play with.

Snores. What a good sign. John was quick to pinpoint the door and with great ease, he slowly opened it. To his surprise, his target was truly asleep and they slept alone.

He pulled his knife from his belt and with each step, his body became stiffer. As he made it to the bed, he loomed over the target. They were fast asleep, the perfect time. John positioned himself, closed his eyes and…

Next thing he knew he was on the floor, knife still in his hand. He gasped for air as he held his throat. A woman, with short blonde hair hovered above him. Her hands were in fists but instead of doing anything else she stepped away, running to the other side of the room. To a chest of drawers.

Quickly, John collected himself. He bolted up and stepped away. The woman turned around and held a knife in her hand, quite similar to John’s.

“Thought I’d make it fair,” she said, her eyes scanned John’s jacket. “…Mycroft sent you?”

John tilted his head. “Yes.”

“Suppose this is what I get for going freelance.” She readied herself. “Ok, try me.” She smirked, fully knowing who she was facing and how this situation would play out.

John waited and waited and all of a sudden, the woman came at him. He dodged her swing, swivelling around in time to push her into her bedside table. She crashed against it, knocking a lamp to the ground. She rested for a second as John stepped back, waiting once more. She came at him again and again, each time she was pushed to the ground or shoved away.

While John was still in peak condition, the woman had become incredibly tired. She looked at him and her eyes flashed, choked full of emotion. She once again got into position and ran at John, swinging with her best shot but John had moved out of her way just in time. She fell into the wall and she slid down it. Tears now in her eyes.

“Just kill me. This is pointless.” Her shoulders slumped, her body went limp.

John frowned as he approached her and crouched down, swiping her knife away from her hand, throwing it across the room. He delicately brushed her hair away from her throat and located a prime spot.

“Any last words?” he asked.

She looked at him with eyes of defeat. “Good fight, Callous. ...But it’s time for you to save Lazarus.” She gave a little smile and bared her neck.

John frowned and let out a little sigh. “I suppose it is.” He closed his eyes once again and angled his knife perfectly.

Blood dripped down her neck. Soaking into her loose top and slipping under it. It was controlled exactly, only slowly leaking away rather than spurting. After a few seconds of difficult breathing, the woman was dead.

He gradually stood up and wiped his knife with his very own cloth. Tucking it into his belt thereafter. He glanced at the woman once more and bowed his head. He ensured he was completely quiet as he left her room.

By the time John had traipsed into his grubby flat, the sun was poking its head above the tops of the buildings around the area. John shuffled to his bed, taking off his belt and jacket as he did. Dropping them to the ground, gently. He fell onto his back and stared at the ceiling. His arms spread out, his legs crossed.

 _‘He chose **you** for a reason.’ _Past words echoed in John’s mind.

“Not now Mycroft,” John murmured, his eyes screw shut. “I don’t have time for memories…” John turned onto his side, his arms wrapped around him. “I don’t want to play these games anymore.”

Buzzing. Vibrating. That’s what woke John. The sounds of a distressed phone. He flung his arm out to his bedside table, grabbing his phone. The bright light caught him off guard at first but soon, he focused in on the notification.

He jumped up immediately, his mouth gaped and his breathing was slightly faster than normal. He ran to the door, picking up a leather jacket on the way.

A hospital room. A room in which a poor Sherlock lay. Connected to machines and relying on tubes that stuck out of his mouth. There was only one true complaint, his sheets had been tucked in too tightly.

Mycroft hung over him, his arms were folded and he almost let his mask drop. But John walked in, his leather jacket gleaming due to rain.

“Two years… eleven months… four days.”

John pointed to Sherlock. “Is that how-”

“How long, yes.”

“Ah.” John knitted his brow. “Why did you call me here?”

“I want you to know something about Sherlock-”

“Hmm. Why?”

“Because it’s been this long and you haven’t left or moved on yet.”

“Moved on from what?”

Mycroft glanced to the ground. “Let me speak and I’ll tell you.”

John only glared for a moment but his silence warranted Mycroft’s speech.

“Sherlock is an emotional man. Whatever your first impressions were, you always have to bear that fact in mind. But he lives for the game. And because of childhood pressures, he feels a need to prove himself.”

John nodded, glancing to Sherlock. “He took the pill to prove he’s clever but… both pills had the poison in.”

“Yes…”

“And he’s only alive because I got to him.”

“I feel he underestimated you but… he did choose you.”

John swiftly looked back to Mycroft. “Yeah what do you mean by that?”

“I mean, Sherlock only couldn’t find a flatmate because he was looking for that right one. The right man, you could say.”

John huffed. “He did reject me.”

“He was scared. He didn’t want to lose someone so promising on the first day. Or let things happen too quickly. He likes to take things slow.”

“Hm. You know an awful lot about your brother’s… romantic habits.”

“As a big brother, I have to know every aspect to keep him safe.”

“Why me though?”

“Look at what you’ve done for the past two years. Isn’t it clear?”

“Ah.”

“…You’ve steered away almost all threats and completed any hit. You’ve ensured anyone _interested_ in Sherlock or his website as a _fan_ , is no longer with us.”

“I did get your point, Mycroft. Anyway, is this why you called me here?”

“Not entirely.”

John raised his eyebrows.

“Battersea Power Station. _She_ has an offer.”

“About time.” John smirked and dashed out the door.

Mycroft looked to Sherlock, staring at him. “He’s a keeper, Sherlock.”

His gun and knife were around his waist, his Kevlar jacket cuddled into him and his boots splashed up a puddle as John made his way into the station.

He walked into one area, some signs had led him that way. A good ol’ fashioned hunt. Or perhaps just a guide to get John in the right place.

“You’ve finally come back then?” John asked the surrounded air.

“Well, yes. Unfinished business.” A woman stepped out from the shadows and faintly smiled at John.

“Irene.”

“Hello, John. It’s been some time. How’s life?”

“Great. How’s the deal?”

Irene lifted her chin. “I’ll give you the stuff that’ll bring Sherlock out of his pitiful coma, if you’ll kill a man.”

John folded his arms. “I was expecting something challenging.”

“This isn’t a trick, this is a genuine request. We’ve worked together before, you know I’m not heartless. Unlike someone I know.”

John smirked. “Who are they?”

“A man who wants to kill me. I just want some peace, so I can live with my wife without having to deal with… assassins or agents.”

John tilted his head. “How do _you_ get yourself into a situation like this?”

Irene shrugged. “Happens to us all.”

“Ok, you have a deal.”

She smiled. “Come to my house once it’s done, I’ll give you the stuff then.”

“Why do you want to help Sherlock?”

“You know why.”

John raised his eyebrows and scoffed. “You _really_ just want to test your intellect against his?”

“Yes. Besides, it would be nice to be friends.”

“Why?”

“What better than having the urban myth of Sherlock Holmes and the active agent, Callous, on your side?”

John dropped his arms. “Fair point.”

Irene clasped her hands together. “Right then. You’ll need to go visit Baker Street. I left info there. Kill a killer, Callous.”

John nodded and the two parted ways, heading back out into the busy streets of the late afternoon.

John trudged through alleyways, any dimly lit paths and avoided any living soul on the way back. It had been so long since he had been here. In this place. He never even had a chance to move in.

It was easy enough to pop in, sneak up the stairs and see the flat still in the same condition. John nodded to himself as he pulled his leather gloves off.

“Mycroft. ‘Course he would.”

John made his way to the table and searched through some paper. He flicked up one sheet and found an envelope, with a seal. He ripped it open, with care and pulled a thin sheet of paper out.

_‘His name is Jim Moriarty…  
This isn’t as easy as you think. You must have heard of his name. He’s involved with some kind of organisation. And I know you hate information on your targets but it’s important for you to know, killing this man, will kill the organisation._

_He’s based at that pool we talked about that one time… Kill him.’_

John stared at the letter, a sigh escaped and he carefully tore the paper up. Throwing the scraps on to the ground. He gazed at the mess that still occupied the room as he put his gloves on.

“Maybe I am doing this for you… Maybe I’m doing it for the life that could have been.” John’s eyes dropped to the ground. “But I’ll save you. It’s worth it.”

He left in the same way… stealthily silent. Heading back through alleyways and anywhere that allowed for darkness, to make it to the very pool that his target awaited.

As John snuck into the upper levels of the building, having a good view of the pool below. He spotted a familiar face and a pile of bodies in the corner. Someone else sitting above the pool, with a sniper rifle in their hand.

John slowly crept up to them, unsure to the reason why they were there. As he approached, it all became clear. They were here for the same reasons. Evident by the Kevlar jacket they were wearing, only available from Mycroft’s supply.

“Janine?” John wondered, his voice in a whisper.

Janine slowly turned her head, surprised to see John, she backed away from her rifle.

“John? What on earth are you doing here?”

“Irene requested for me to kill Moriarty.”

Janine’s eyes widened. “Moriarty? Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

“Who are you here to kill?”

“His partner, Moran I think his name is.”

“I’ll keep out of your way, if you’ll keep out of mine?”

“Keep out of my sights more like.” She playfully wacked John’s arm.

“See ya when I see ya, Zeal.”

“Right back at ya, Callous.”

Janine returned to her sight and John moved off, finding his own spot to observe. As he looked down, he spotted Moriarty, relaxing by the pool, with sunglasses on. His hand waded in the water and he smiled to himself.

“CAlLoUs,” he called theatrically.

John shuffled back and from across the area, Janine flicked a look at him. Begging him to get out.

“You can come down to talk… Irene thought she could get rid of mee and… you, you might just do it. But I doubt it, Johnny boy.”

Janine stared as John hurried out the door, he ran down the stairs and burst through the door at the bottom. His gun in his hand, his arm straight and his aim steady.

“Now, before you do that...” Moriarty whipped up and spun around, taking his sunglasses off, all in one movement. He tilted his head, cracked his neck and dropped the sunglasses. “I want to ask something.”

John stayed silent, not entirely knowing why his finger hadn’t pulled the trigger yet.

“What is it all for? I mean, I’d hire you in a heartbeat. Your record is… amazing and the pay is far better than what Mycroft has to offer.”

John furrowed his brow. “I’m not a bad man.”

Moriarty stepped forward, causing John to tilt his head ever so slightly. “No… You just gain intel and kill people for a living.” Moriarty smiled to himself. “And you don’t get the nickname, Callous, for nothing.”

John blinked through confusion. “Fine, I’m doing this to survive.”

“No. You’re still wrong.”

John narrowed his eyes, they darted from corner to corner. “What?”

“You’re doing this to save Sherlock.” This time Moriarty glowered at John, his mouth twisted into a scowl. “But I suppose, anyone would be inclined to do that.”

“What do you-”

A door cracked open and Moran stepped into the room. He moved towards a box, with ammo inside.

“Moran!” Moriarty shouted, not even turning around. “I thought I told you to stay out.”

“Ugh, I just had to-”

_Bang._

One clean shot through the head and Moran was lying on the floor, dead. Blood poured from the clean bullet hole. Moriarty’s eyes collapsed shut and John only stared, witnessing a tear fall from his eyes. He slowly turned around and glimpsed at Moran’s dead body. He whimpered at the sight, dropping to his knees.  

“Do it... Please, just kill me.”

The clang of a door gently shutting could be heard up top and John’s eyes dropped to the ground. As he sighed at the sight, his eyesight jumped back up and he aimed with precision. He positioned his finger and pulled the trigger, softly. Moriarty’s body fell to the ground, his blood also happened to pour from his head. How nice of the two agents to do their jobs, and do them well.

Two men lay dead around a swimming pool. Pools of blood lay behind them, the blood itself ran to the pool. Tainting the chlorine rich water with the blood of the two targets.

As John stumbled outside, he was greeted with the darkness of the night. He sulked away into the alleyways, keeping out of sight until a black car rolled up. Consequently, John rolled his eyes and hopped in the back. The car stayed put.

“Callous, what did The Woman ask you to do?” Mycroft’s voice echoed in the front. Cautious of the driver sitting next to him, he elected to use code names.

“Oh, you know, she only asked me to kill Moriarty.”

“And you did?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Very good… Any troubles?”

“None. He wanted to talk and that gave Ja- Zeal enough time to kill Moran.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps I’ll assign you two together then, for future missions.”

“If you take me to The Woman’s house, I can get the stuff and bring… Lazarus back. Then I no longer have to be an agent. Please Antarctica, I never asked for this.” John’s demeanour had dropped once more, his face for once showed worry.

“But you chose this path.”

“…I chose it in the hope that one day, I wouldn’t have to be on it anymore.”

“You’d stay with him?”

John looked out the window. “Of course.”

The car moved off and John sat back in the chair, getting comfortable for his journey.

The car pulled up by some houses, John jumped out, it drove away and the door opened. Irene and Kate, in nice coats and fancy dresses. They certainly weren’t expecting John to be standing on the pavement, hands tucked away in his jacket.

“Oh,” Irene sounded. “You’ve done it already?”

“Yes. I told you it wasn’t going to be challenging.”

Irene whispered into Kate’s ear and so ducked back inside while Irene made it down the steps.

“But… it was Moriarty.”

“And he made a mistake.” John half-heartedly shrugged.

Irene approached him. “What mistake was that?”

“He tried to talk to me and dug too deep into my motives.”

“Oh… He used Sherlock as a pressure point?”

“Nah, he didn’t get that far. But he was heading down that path.”

Irene nodded. “Ok, inside. I’ll show you to the stuff.”

“Thank you…”

Irene headed back to the steps. “Callous, saying ‘thank you’? Miracles never cease.”

“Aw, shut up.” John rolled his eyes.

“Never.”

The two of them made it to the living room, in which a safe sat in the corner. Kate was chilling on the sofa, texting.

“Isn’t keeping your safe in full view dangerous for you?” John asked, sticking to the door.

“Not at all. There’s two combinations. One that sets off an alarm and one that opens it. Anyway, I don’t keep many objects of importance in here.” Irene crouched down by the safe and began entering the code.

John folded his arms. “So, why was Moriarty after you?”

“He wanted to get this stuff from me. I presume it was for something.”

“…When he spoke to me, it was almost like he didn’t want me to save Sherlock.”

Irene opened the safe and pulled a box out. “Well, back in the day there were rumours that it would take Sherlock Holmes to bring him down.”

“Moriarty stalked Sherlock for a time. He wanted to know all his movements so he could kill him… Some say he sent the Cabbie after him,” Kate announced.

Irene closed the safe and stood up, with the box in her hands. “Really? How do you know?”

Kate looked up from her phone and smirked. “You’re not the only one with contacts, dear.”

“Hmm. I’m just glad that lunatic is dead…” Irene gazed at Kate. “Keeps us safe.”

“Hopefully this will be the first and last time you have to get Callous over here to kill someone for us.”

“Yes.” Irene approached John, handing the box to him.

John carefully took the box into his hands. “It’s always a pleasure.”

“Yeah, only when you get what you want.”

John rolled his eyes. “This is all I’ve ever asked from you…” John smiled. “Have a nice night.”

Irene glanced at Kate, her eyes gazed. “Oh, we will.”

John gave them both a nod before he left, calmly and silently. As he walked back into the street, the car returned and he hopped in the back once more. The box sat on his lap as the car journeyed towards the hospital.

“That’s really it…?” Mycroft asked, as the two got out of the car.

“It is,” John replied, the box firmly within his grip.

“Will it work?” Mycroft wondered, with caution. The two began their trudge to the ward Sherlock was kept in, to his room.

“Irene once ensured me that it would. Said it contained some of the antidote for the poison.”

Mycroft furrowed his brow. “They tried the antidote at the time, it’s what saved him but-”

“It was too late and he went into a coma, I know.”

The two entered a lift, side by side they stood, determined. But fearful. Fearful of what _could_ happen, if it were to go pear-shaped.

“So…?”

“So, it has other stuff in it… That’ll bring him back.” John’s voice became small, his eyes shut tightly. “I hope.”

Mycroft looked to John, eyes plastered with worry. “Yes. Hope. That’s all we can do.”

The lift doors gradually opened, each second felt like a day. The two walked with great speed. Each step brought them closer. But closer to what? Sherlock waking up? Or losing all hope entirely?

It wasn’t too long before the two were approaching the room. As they came up to the door, they briefly glanced at each other. A single nod was shared and, they walked in. John moved towards Sherlock’s bed while Mycroft locked the door. No one and nothing could stop them now.

They were here, at last. With the last scrap of hope in their hands. John placed the box on the bed and flicked the lid open. It revealed a syringe, filled with one single dose, surrounded by padding and whatnot.

Mycroft approached the box. “Just one syringe?”

“…All we have to do is inject it.”

“And how will we tell if it works?” Mycroft’s voice was only brittle, his fear, his emotions… they were showing.

John looked away from the syringe, his eyes crept up to Mycroft’s trembling expression. His lips were quivering, his eyes filled up with moisture. “If he doesn’t wake up after 48 hours, then he’s truly gone.”

Mycroft pressed his lips into a thin line. “Do it.”

John’s eyes dropped back down to the syringe. He took a moment, a breath. Hesitantly, he picked it up. His eyes gave it the once over. With a sigh, he moved towards Sherlock and moved his arm ever so slightly. After locating a suitable vein, one that was clear to see, he aimed the syringe towards it. Slowly but surely, he pushed the needle into Sherlock’s skin and gradually injected the liquid in.

John moved back towards the box, returning the syringe and as he did, Mycroft unlocked the door. Shortly after, both John and Mycroft sat in the uncomfortable hospital chairs and the box stood in the corner of the room.

“Now we wait,” John said, his eyes were fixed on Sherlock.

“Yes… Indeed.”

Hours and hours went by but Sherlock was never alone. If John needed to eat, off he went. Leaving Mycroft there. The two were like that for a full day. One went out, to do whatever, while one stayed and watched. Still, there were no signs that Sherlock was ever getting out of this coma. None at all. He lay there, like he’d always done, completely lifeless. Just a shell.

There came a point where both John and Mycroft were in the room. Night was settling in as orange light cast over the hospital. Sherlock’s observations had just been done by a tired nurse. And all seemed quiet and peaceful. Mostly because John and Mycroft were practically asleep in their chairs, both attempted to stay awake but their eyes were heavy. Too heavy to stay awake, so they slept.

Morning came around, light shone into the room, making life seem bright. But it hardly was. John had just awoken and had settled on watching Sherlock. His hand propped up his head and as he watched, his eyes flicked to his watch.

A sigh escaped, a deep, hopeless sigh. “Twelve hours left…” he mumbled.

“Huh- Wha-” A startled Mycroft jumped awake, his eyes were groggy, his mouth was dry. As he became aware of his surroundings he slumped back into the chair. He faced John, his entire expression looked dead. “How long…?” he asked, yet his voice was barely there.

“Twelve hours… What if he doesn’t wake up, what then?”

Mycroft pushed himself up from his slouched position. “Then we do what we said we’d do… We turn off his life support and let him rest.”

John’s eyes welled up but nonetheless, he gave a single nod. A one that was full of emotion. “Right.”

Mycroft’s lips twisted, his eyes filled up. “We have to be strong, John. Today we are not agents, we’re soldiers.”

“Yes. Yes we are. Soldiers…”

It all slipped away so quickly, as if time itself was nothing. It all was coming to a close, this last chance. Perhaps John would never get to know the man he met all that time ago, perhaps Mycroft would have to live in a world without his brother. Nevertheless, there was still time. Something could happen and all they could do was wait. Wait and hope.

The blinds were closed and if you were to look outside you’d only be greeted with the lights of the city. Both John and Mycroft sat in their chairs, awake as ever. Due to their request, Sherlock’s tubes had been removed from his mouth. If he was going to wake up, he may as well be comfortable. If he wasn’t then removing them would make little difference.

“An hour. One hour left…” John’s eyes dropped to the ground. “He’s not gonna wake up, is he?”

Mycroft stared at Sherlock. “We still have an hour.”

“I hope he wakes up, for your sake.”

“I hope he wakes up for yours.”

John’s eyes bolted up, his sight quickly darted to Mycroft.

Mycroft slowly looked to John. “Sorry, did I catch you off guard?”

“Yes, a bit… Why did you say that?”

“…Because somehow you fell in love with him, on that day. I don’t know how but, you did.”

John scoffed, his left hand clenched and unclenched within a second. “How could you possibly know that?”

Mycroft slowly blinked. “I’ve been monitoring you. Well, I was. At the beginning. The way you reacted, your pulse and your pupils. All sorts. I looked for any signs.”

John shook his head. “Why?”

“Because, John, people don’t normally wait in a hospital room all day hoping that their new flatmate would wake up. I knew the moment I walked into this room that you had somehow fallen victim to love at first sight. I thought it was a myth up until that day.”

“…Ah.”

“And people then don’t normally beg to work as an agent so you can figure out a way to save someone you barely know.”

John only stared for a moment. “…I suppose it was easy to imagine what life could have been like. I did fancy him but love? Maybe not love but I knew if I had a chance, I’d fall for him. If that counts then, sure, I loved him and I don’t think those feelings ever went away.” John took to fidgeting and his eyes dropped to the ground once more.

Mycroft settled back in the chair and steepled his fingers, taking them to his mouth where they would stay for some time.

“Is he really gonna do this to us?” John wondered, as he gazed at his watch. “Thirty minutes.”

“Yes… He is a drama queen you know.”

John looked to Sherlock. “I’m not surprised. The way he darted about on that day, splashing wine on himself and pretending to get kicked out by Angelo. So dramatic.” John unconsciously smiled.

“A fond memory?”

John’s smile dissolved. “Yes… Maybe you’re right. Maybe I fell in love with that daft personality of his.”

They both stared, their silence consumed the room. Thirty minutes.

_ “Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson.” _

The last step… was reached.

An uneven rhythm was heard from the heart monitor, the first unusual thing to occur since Sherlock had been there. John and Mycroft sat up straight in their seats and both suddenly jolted up, edging towards Sherlock’s bed.

But as the heart monitor returned to normal, they both shrunk into themselves. Their expressions only showed disappointment. As Mycroft stepped towards his chair, John grabbed his arm, pulling him back to the bedside.

“I swear I saw his finger twitch,” John said with such certainty that Mycroft turned back around. Standing with all the hope in the world.

Both stared, their eyes scanned Sherlock. John looked to Sherlock’s hand, Mycroft looked to his eyes.

A twitch of one finger. His eyelids fluttering. John’s smile returned and Mycroft also manged to smile. Their bodies went stiff with anticipation.

“Come on, Sherlock,” Mycroft said.

“Please, Sherlock. Wake up…”

A certain finger on his left hand twitched and his eyelids rapidly fluttered until… They slowly but surely opened.

A sigh escaped Mycroft’s lips and John’s head tilted back, an inaudible ‘thank god’, slipped out.

Sherlock’s eyes darted back and forth, adjusting to his surroundings. Trying to separate his dreams from reality.

As his mind attempted to catch up with his brain, he eked out some words. “Where… am I?”

Mycroft inched closer to the bed. “Hospital… You took the pill, remember?”

Sherlock blinked through confusion. “I… I chose wrong?”

“No… both pills had the poison in. I’m sorry we didn’t get to you in time.”

John took a breath, guilt washed over him. “And by _we_ , he means me. I should have realised sooner than I did.”

John’s voice struck something in Sherlock. He squirmed just a bit and closed his eyes, only for them to fling open moments later.

“John…?”

John smiled, his eyes looked besotted. “So, you remember me?”

Sherlock smirked. “How could I forget?”

Mycroft glanced at Sherlock and then at John. He nodded to himself and stepped back. “I’ll go find a nurse…” He dashed out of the room before either of them could say anything.

Sherlock ever so slightly pushed himself up, to see John at a better angle. “How long was I in a coma for?”

John furrowed his brow. “How do you know it was a coma?”

“You both look older…” Sherlock looked down but his eyes flicked up to John. “Among other things.”

“Oh, ok… Uh, you’ve been in a coma for two years and eleven months.”

“Really…?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve stayed here all this time?”

John folded his arms. “I couldn’t just, give up. I worked with Mycroft and eventually got hold of some medicine that brought you back.”

Sherlock’s eyes surveyed John’s expression. “You’re one of his agents?”

John shook his head, his lips pressed into a thin line. “Not anymore… We agreed that once you woke up, I’d stop working for him.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Then what will you do?”

“I… well… 221B Baker Street is still our flat. If you want, we can still be flatmates.”

Sherlock smiled. “I’d like that.”

John pulled his chair closer and sat, getting to Sherlock’s eye level. “…Can, we, uh… talk about Angelo’s for a second?”

Sherlock nodded and his eyes seemed to convey all his emotions.

“We were- I don’t know. Both, interested? Weren’t we?”

“You… really caught me off guard that day. I didn’t know how to- I didn’t want to scare you off when I’d only just met you.”

John nodded with a smile. “So… when you recover, why don’t we go on a date?”

Sherlock grinned, ear to ear. “I know a good Chinese.”

John chortled. “I bet you do.”

Mycroft appeared back in the room, with a nurse and doctor scooting by him, to get to Sherlock. As time went out the window and weeks were there and gone, Sherlock was ready to go home. It had been a month, he had recovered quicker than anyone thought and so, he was out of there.

He had changed into his own clothes, his coat rested upon him, a little looser than it ever used to be. He packed a few things into a duffle bag and picked it up, holding it as if it were a handbag.

“Hold it properly,” John said, sternly.

Sherlock glared at John, with a furrowed brow. “Why?”

“Because you’re still weak, you daft sod.”

“I can manage.”

“Your arm’s shaking.” John approached Sherlock and took the bag’s handles into his hands. He shuffled it off of Sherlock’s arm and held it. “There.”

Sherlock glanced at the ground. “…Thank you.”

“You need to learn when to ask for help… I’m always here.”

“…Why? Why are you always here?” Sherlock turned to John, his eyes seemed heavy and tired.

“Because… I protected you for almost three years. Because I always regret not getting to you sooner.”

“Why do you regret that…? I was always going to end up taking that pill.”

John’s eyes narrowed. “What…?”

“I was, a bit, suicidal… I almost wanted to take it.”

“Oh… Sherlock…”

“Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine. There’s nothing to be sorry for. You were in a dark place and presented with the perfect opportunity. I understand.” John gave a reassuring smile.

“You sound like… you know.”

“A lot of us get suicidal Sherlock… I’ll always give you support. That’s what matters, having people around you.”

Sherlock grinned. “Yes… I get that now.”

“Come on, let’s go.”

The two arrived at 221B, they trudged up the stairs and John threw the bag down. Sherlock’s eyes swiftly scanned the place. Everything was how it was. Yet it was so different to the flat he had made up in his mind. Something that was ever so slightly nicer than this dingy place.

“It’s the same…?”

“Mycroft was paying Mrs Hudson to keep it the same.” John sat down on the sofa, he gave the place the once over.

“Oh… Why?” Sherlock sat beside John.

John shrugged. “It’s a nice place.”

Sherlock smirked, his eyes looked to John with such admiration. “It is…”

John faced Sherlock, with a smile on his face. “So… are you up for that date? It’s ok if you’re not…”

Sherlock ever so slightly nodded. “I’d love to, John…”

“The Chinese?”

“It’s a nice small place. I know the owner.”

John tilted his head. “What did you do for them?”

Sherlock lifted his chin and smirked more so than before. “Oh, you know, general stuff. I proved that they weren’t a deadly assassin.”

John’s eyes narrowed and a single eyebrow raised. “No, you didn’t,” he replied with a smirk.

“‘Course not. I just helped out every once in a blue moon. Knew them through a case, nothing special.”

“Hm. It would have been more interesting if you had proved they weren’t a deadly assassin.”

“It would, wouldn’t it? Sadly, life isn’t that dramatic.”

“Sherlock, your life seems more dramatic than any average person.”

“You’re not wrong.”

By the time they got to the Chinese, laughter filled the air. The two had managed to find similar interests and it helped that their humour was on the same level. Basic, witty and dry. As they entered the restaurant, a waiter was eager to show them to a table. One that was by the window. They had menus in their hands and drinks by their side before they even had a chance to rest.

“…Do you think they get much business?” John asked from behind his menu.

Sherlock scanned the area, his eyes darted about. Chipped paint. Grimy floors. Overenthusiastic employees. And the smell of something totally rotten. Though, air freshener had masked the smell. In turn, the place smelt like flowers that had rubbish water poured on top of them.

Sherlock whipped up from his seat and pulled his coat on, he flashed his eyes at John. “Time to go.”

John only stared as he watched the coat swing from left to right. “Hm, yes,” he said, shaking his head to bring himself out of the trance. “Let’s go.”

The two bolted out of there like no tomorrow, laughter hung in their throats. They stumbled a few paces before collecting themselves.

“Should have noticed the lack of people…” Sherlock declared.

“Yes, and that smell. Gah, I can still smell it!”

Sherlock grinned. “So much can change in three years.”

John threw Sherlock a look, his eyes traced him. They seemed to be full of emotion, intense emotion. “Yeah… It really can.”

Sherlock glanced at John and gave him a small, quite innocent smile. “How about you choose?”

“Me?”

“Well, you haven’t been in a coma for three years. Know any good spots?”

John’s eyes dropped to the ground. “I never really got out much…”

“But you must know some place?”

John twisted his mouth in thought. “Uh… There was this one place Mycroft took me once- Just a pub but it was nice. Fancy it?”

“Take the lead.” Sherlock smiled once again.

Before any time at all they sat at a table, deep in a pub. Far from the bar and somewhat surrounded by children running around as if it was a playground. Nevertheless, two glasses of wine stood proudly on the table and the two were skimming through the menus. This time, they were comfortable and ready to actually order.

“You know,” John began, “you are beautiful.”

Sherlock raised his eyes from his menu, meeting John’s. His cheeks lit up in a blush. “Well if I’m beautiful… what does that make you?”

John smirked. “Smoking hot, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock agreed, chuckling away.

The remnants of a steak and the few scraps of pasta left were all that were before them. With pretty much empty glasses of wine next to them. The two could hardly let a couple of seconds past before locking each other in a gaze or giggling at how absurd this whole thing was. Still, they were there and having the date that should have been all those years ago.

Perhaps the last few glasses of wine were a mistake as John and Sherlock stumbled into 221B, a little closer to drunk than tipsy. But I suppose a coma or staying clear of drink would do that. Clambering up the stairs was a feat and laughing their heads off didn’t help with shrugging off their coats and kicking off their shoes. And they were on the sofa in no time. A quick glance at each other and the laughing subsided.

“I enjoyed tonight,” Sherlock said.

John grinned. “Me too…”

“Suppose you waited a long time for this.”

“It was worth the wait.” John’s grinned evolved into a glistening smile.

“…That was cheesy.”

John threw his arm behind the sofa, behind Sherlock. “Shut up.”

Sherlock softly smiled, glancing to John with an innocent look. “Do you ever think of what could have been?”

“All the time. _Alll_ the time.” John removed his arm and leant forward, resting his hands above his knees. “I don’t know what I feel… for you. It’s all so, confusing.”

Sherlock leant forward too, staring at John with such precision, listening to him intently. “I can’t begin to imagine.”

“No, I think you can.” John looked to Sherlock. “You did basically lose three years of your life.”

Sherlock frowned. “Yes but at least I wasn’t without _you_.” He twisted his mouth in a half smile, nervousness hid behind it.

“Cheesy,” John quipped with a smirk.

“I’m a hypocrite at heart.” Sherlock also came to have a smirk upon his lips.

John sat up, getting truly lost in Sherlock’s eyes. The way they sparkled even in the darkest light. His hand crawled up Sherlock’s arm until he reached his neck, he inched ever so slightly forward and pulled Sherlock’s lips to his. It was soft and warm and loving, for a few seconds. And that was all it took before things got a little… well, heated. Rougher kissing ensued and soon enough, Sherlock was lying on the sofa with John on top of him. Take _that_ one how you like.

The next morning the two were greeted with the brightness of natural light, shining into Sherlock’s bedroom. They were wrapped in covers and had fallen asleep in each other’s arms. Just like how it should be, how it should always be. The two of them, wherever they are, together. Safe in their arms, in their hold.

And the smells of breakfast were just around the corner. Bacon, eggs, baked beans, black pudding and a few jolly sausages. Screw the tomatoes and mushrooms, who really needs them in an English breakfast anyway?

Nevertheless, John was happily cooking away while Sherlock sat at the table, scrolling through his pretty much ancient phone. He was still catching up with the world, ensuring he didn’t miss a detail. Every so often, he looked up and stared at John, who happened to be wrapped in only a dressing gown. Sherlock was too but there was something about John’s dressing gown that made him shudder.

“The dream,” Sherlock whispered under his breath, as he realised. He rolled his eyes and glanced back down at his phone.

“What?” John asked while fully concentrating on a thousand things at once.

“Nothing, nothing. Just a… mental note.” He winced, grimaced. That phrase was tainted too? What else was?

He glanced back up at John and smiled, the one person that could bring him home. The person who waited almost three years for a complete stranger, a stranger that had changed his life however.

_‘Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?’_

Sherlock grimaced once again, his eyes shut tightly. He shook his head in such a way that he hoped the thoughts would leave. Stop being so intrusive. But they continued until Sherlock shoved his phone away from him and he bowed his head, sobbing.

John had just plated up the two breakfasts and as he turned around to Sherlock - with a smile on his face - he immediately returned them to the bench. He moved towards Sherlock, wrapping his arms around him.

“What is it? What happened?” he asked worriedly, his voice shook, his eyes only gave a soft look.

“My dream, John… I just, I can remember it so vividly. It was horrible.” His sobbing turned into a cry, the memories of his dream had really hit him hard.

“Sherlock… I know it can feel like they were real or something but, _this_ is real life. This is where you are, with me and everyone who surrounds you.” John rested his head on Sherlock’s, lightly and his crying softened, just a little.

“What if I’m not worth it?” he asked with such a quiet voice. It was as if he was scolding himself from bringing attention to the matter.

John’s eyes collapsed shut. “Oh god, Sherlock, you’re worth it. You’re worth so much and everyone loves you and we’re all here for you, ok? Please don’t let yourself down because we’ve waited and waited for you.”

“What if you waited for nothing?”

“Please, please don’t say that. Please, love yourself a little ok? Because I know if I don’t right now, I’ll fall so in love with you that the whole world wouldn’t matter.”

John moved away a little, he brushed Sherlock’s hair back and tucked it behind his ears. Which only made Sherlock look up to him, with eyes that were still mid cry and so very tired.

“Really…?” he asked, hesitantly.

“Yes, my god, yes really.”

John smiled with reassurance and Sherlock could only smile back. His eyes - yet still full of moisture - were entirely besotted. And that’s what mattered, the support and love the two of them could bring. So much love. _All the love._

Because they were together and John wasn’t Callous and Sherlock wasn’t some myth. They were just there. With their lives beginning a new chapter, a one that would keep them together, for all time.


End file.
